


The Fox & The Crow

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Gakuen Mokushiroku | Highschool of the Dead
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hirano despairs -- a/u or set before the events of the show</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fox & The Crow

**Author's Note:**

> "Flatterers thrive on fools' credulity.  
> The lesson's worth a cheese, don't you agree?"  
> The crow, shamefaced and flustered swore,  
> Too late, however: "Nevermore!"

He wished he was good-looking. He wished he was smart. He wished he had a friend. He wished he had a girlfriend, a sweet girl with pink cheeks who held his hand and sat beside him in school and told him he was cool.

Cuddled in the ruin of his room, Kohta cried a little, and swept the teardrops from beneath the hem of his spectacles with his unoccupied hand with efficient disinterest. His imagination was very good, very finely honed. He imagined that the plush palm which cupped his genitals was his girlfriend's, a sweet soft long-fingered hand on a skinny white wrist tipped with cherry red nails, a titillating scent of strawberry shampoo, a ribbon bow-feminine soprano which coaxed and praised him almost inaudibly.

His disgust of his ejaculate was so profound it almost burned where it touched him, like venom. Wincing, he wiped his hand and then his eyes on the uniform sleeve which had landed on his thigh like a comrade's compassionate hand, replaced his glasses, closed up with bitter haste the button of his trousers, pulled down his threadbare t-shirt.

He hated to see the pallid soft billows of his tummy, his petite pink penis wilting in a bed of spare babyish curls, something frivolous and funny, like a child's toy. He preferred to see himself inside, a broad, dark, adult man, powerful and inflexible, Clint Eastwood, Sylvester Stallone.

Pathetically, he snuffled, rubbing his nose on the back of his palm. His craving for chocolate cookies was practically crushing him.

Platoon was already in his Playstation. He played it, selected from his school bag a tin-shiny cellophane package and tucked himself deeply into the dense warm luxury of his quilt and abundance of pillows.

Today a boy put out his foot to trip him as he returned to his seat in class. His cheek and temple had struck the corner of a desk very hard.

The school nurse was so pretty. Her hair was so long and looked so soft. Her clothes were so beautiful. Her face was so kind.

He loved the way the cookies crisply resisted his teeth, crumbling where his tongue touched them, fragrant with the nourishing tallowy flavor of chocolate, crushed open to reveal a sweet milky vein of cool cream which squeaked in his teeth if he bit too hard.

Gunfire and helicopter blades rattled the speakers of his inexpensive sound unit, comforting in the foreground of the drowsy murmur of the house settling and the white drift of the falling dark outside his home. He didn't really watch.

He ate and ate. He imagined the pretty nurse prone, long silken hair disheveled around her, skirt high on her thighs, cowering on the earth in the perilous night, imposed upon by himself in the skin of a roguishly handsome thug armed with an implausibly powerful silver serpent of a pistol which brazenly prodded the pliant lobes of her repose breasts.

Kohta shed tears, compulsively, rubbing his eyes and sticky cheeks in his pillow and displacing the hook of his spectacles from his right ear, but he felt good, warm and quiet and deeply vacant beneath the marshmallow-soft bedding. His spectacles bit the tender turgid flesh of his shiner where he lay against them. His penis felt content and gently sore, firmly compressed in his underwear by his loping thigh. He was very hungry.

His hand slipped from the sodden lump of his groin and slid surreptitiously beneath the cloak of the quilt to the pocket between his mattress and bed frame. He fished there for a long minute.

A man beyond the veil of grain of the television screen in the tropic green was knocked comically from his feet as a shot in a burst of red lotus confronted his brow. A clock clucked somewhere in the empty, dark house. Chocolate crumbs stuck in Kohta's cheek and the tips of his fringe.

Beneath his quilt, Kohta hunched over his contraband and felt delicately in the dim muggy light the crisp lens of its sight, the pebbled plastic stock, the wonderful serene moon-smooth surface of the lengths of its obsidian barrels, a kind of arachnid serpent, mechanical and beautiful, and dedicated to him as a wife.

By touch, he found the seam in the hull, the clitoris of the lock which he plucked as deftly as harpist, and the maiden came undone in his hands. Its parts cluttered softly in his lap, clicking on each other like lovers' teeth.

A scrap of fabric as soft as a kitten's ear kissed across its nubile neck, the buttock of its stock, revealing a pink gleam and honey glow not unlike the shaven parts of young women displayed in the videos Kohta sometimes absconded from his fathers abandoned room during long restless summer nights.

Kohta kissed it also. How elegant it was, like an voluptuous woman in a short black dress.

He thought again, a little uneasily now, of the long-haired nurse with the flippant voice and fingers and kind eyes, who had touched his shoulder very gently with lady-like sympathy when he visited her today to be checked for a concussion, has asked in her affected soprano if he was all right, and where did it hurt? And may she touch his wrist? Thank you, she was just going to take his pulse. Thank you, she needed to check his pupils.

She only looked him in the eye long enough to read the diameter of his pupils, but it felt between an instant and an epoch to Kohta, cooking inside in his secret passion he had dreaded would flow out of his nostrils in carmine steam, would bellow in his breast with an audible rumble, would alert the lady who would flee screaming from the reach of his claws.

She looked a little bit like his mother. Kohta couldn't hurt her.

He thought ferociously, becoming suddenly draconian in his shelter beneath the quilt in the home gloaming and clutching the obsidian throat of his rifle hard to breast like a recruit saluting, of the woman he would hurt, the baby woman with scorn written on her evil infantile face who wore her hair in two long tails like a hares ears, and the boys which were reduced to cheshire cat grins and slitted eyes in the black tome of his memory, and the leviathans of the instructors, adults with broad thin shoulders and long thin arms and thin faces and thin false smiles they wore when they observed his misery.

Though he'd never seen either in real life, he realized the yawning red exit wound on the back of the girl's head was going to look very much like her netherparts.

Anxiously, Kohta put the hump of the stock warm with his handling into his mouth and suckled it like a breast.

Not tomorrow. He had worked so hard on his history project - he had selected the Vietnam war - it would be a shame for his accounts to go ungraded - and he was so excited to eat curry rice and chocolate cookies for lunch tomorrow - and perhaps that very pretty nurse would pass him in the hall, would toss her long hair over her shoulder in that glamorous feminine effortlessness and look down at him and smile.

Not tomorrow. Perhaps not the next day, either.

But soon.


End file.
